Killer Cocktail (17 page)
Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Amateur Sleuth
“No. If I go by myself, I’ll be less memorable. No one ever forgets talking to you.”
“Don’t try to distract me with flattery. That’s such a guy move.
“I’ll call you the moment I’m done. Try to get Tricia to come see you.”
“She’s already on her way.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Then after the florist, you’ll hand everything over to Kyle and be done with it?”
“That’s what you think I should do?”
“Uh-huh. Like it?”
“Oh, look, I’m here. I’ll call you back.” I snapped my phone shut.
The cabdriver, a tall Ethiopian man with deep creases around his mouth that emphasized the length of his face, caught my eye in the rearview mirror.
“We’re not there yet,” he said with a hesitant politeness.
“I know. I was just done talking.”
He frowned and the creases deepened drastically. “Don’t lie to friends. They always find out.”
I started to get annoyed with his pronouncement, before realizing you can only get so annoyed with the truth. And if I was on the side of truth, upsetting everyone around me in a search for it, then I supposed I should be telling it.
Unless it got in the way Which is why I bit my lip hard enough to make my eyes tear up before I told the florist, “I worked for Lisbet McCandless, the actress.”
The flower shop was a deep, narrow profusion of greenery and blossoms. Walking into it was like wedging yourself into
The Secret Garden,
with Harry Connick, Jr., on a boombox standing in for the birds. The florist was a stork among the rushes, a tall woman with impressively sharp elbows and knees that Caitlin would have banished from the planet. Her name tag read DOROTHY. She wore a smocked tie-dyed sundress that had to have been purchased out of the back of a VW van at a Grateful Dead concert, with hemp sandals flapping on her bony feet. The progression from Jerry Garcia to Harry Connick intrigued me, but I needed to stick to the subject.
The Secret Garden,
with Harry Connick, Jr., on a boombox standing in for the birds. The florist was a stork among the rushes, a tall woman with impressively sharp elbows and knees that Caitlin would have banished from the planet. Her name tag read DOROTHY. She wore a smocked tie-dyed sundress that had to have been purchased out of the back of a VW van at a Grateful Dead concert, with hemp sandals flapping on her bony feet. The progression from Jerry Garcia to Harry Connick intrigued me, but I needed to stick to the subject.
“Then you’re out of a job, I guess,” she replied. Hardly the nurturing, earth mother response I’d been hoping for. “I’m not hiring.”
“Not why I’m here,” I said, trying to lean away from the razor elbows as she squeezed by me to get eucalyptus sprigs out of the refrigerated case. “I’m tidying things up, for her parents really, and have a question.”
“A question for me?” She craned her long, thin neck at me, emphasizing the stork resemblance.
I held up the card, back in its envelope. “This is from here, right?”
Dorothy snatched the envelope and inspected it nearsightedly. “Yeah, it’s one of mine.” She pointed to the date in the corner. “We delivered them Thursday.”
“Do you know who sent them to her?”
She squinted at me suspiciously. “Why?”
“Lisbet’s family is a real stickler for good manners,” I vamped, managing not to choke on the words. “Lisbet always wrote thank-you notes to everyone who sent her flowers. Her mother has asked me to send notes to everyone she hadn’t gotten to before … you know. Anyway, this card was tucked in her stationery box, but doesn’t match anything on the list of notes she’d written. And it’s not signed, so I don’t know to whom to write the note.” I threw in sad eyes to seal the deal.
There was a tense moment while Dorothy weighed my story. Just when I figured she’d found it wanting, her narrow face twisted in despair. “That’s beautiful. Who’s got that kind of class anymore?”
“She was special,” I agreed. She squeezed past me again, slipping behind the counter and fishing out an accordion file. She checked the date on the envelope again, then withdrew a day’s worth of receipts from the file. As she paged
through them, I wondered if Veronica had left behind any other clues to her mounting hatred of Lisbet.
through them, I wondered if Veronica had left behind any other clues to her mounting hatred of Lisbet.
Dorothy’s face brightened and she held a receipt aloft. “I remember now. He was cute.”
“He?” That couldn’t be. “I thought the flowers were from a woman.”
“Why? Was there something about the arrangement that suggested that?” Dorothy asked, her artistic instincts challenged.
“No, I thought Lisbet said something about it. Were there any other flowers delivered to her that day?”
Dorothy zipped through the other receipts, shaking her head. “Not from me. He was the only one. I remember now, because it was odd he was sending them to her when the show was still in rehearsal. It’s usually an opening night thing, you know.”
I nodded distractedly. Had Veronica gotten someone to place the order for her? Cassady’s new actor friend? Someone else connected with the show?
“Oh, but he was the one …” Dorothy slapped the receipts on the counter and picked up the envelope again, sliding the card out. She beamed, turning the card so I could read LEAVE AND LIVE, as though I hadn’t already “Yes. He said he was waiting for her to make a decision and he thought flowers were a nice way to remind her.”
I tried to stay calm and pleasant while my theory came crashing down around me. “Did you get his name?”
“No.” Dorothy pressed the card to her chest. “It was so romantic. He said she’d know who he was, but he couldn’t afford for anyone else to know.”
I bet. “Did he say why? I mean, this doesn’t strike me as a particularly romantic message.”
“Oh, but it is. See, she was involved with someone else
and he was asking her to leave, but he didn’t want it to get ugly for anyone if it didn’t work out.”
and he was asking her to leave, but he didn’t want it to get ugly for anyone if it didn’t work out.”
I wondered where along the spectrum of “working out” he would place Lisbet being murdered. Had he killed her because she hadn’t made the choice he wanted her to make? Was Veronica not the killer after all? “So, no name or number.”
Dorothy cocked her head at me, intrigued. “You don’t know who it could have been?”
“No,” I said patiently. “That’s why I came to see you.”
“Then they must have been really careful about their affair, if you worked for her and didn’t know anything was going on.”
I nodded slowly, trying to think of some shred of information I could take away from this, other than the great big question mark I now had to hang next to Veronica’s name on my mental list of suspects. The problem was, David was the only man on that list. Wait. Could this have been some game of David’s? “This is important. Did he say ‘affair’ to you?” I asked, figuring her fiance wouldn’t use the term.
Dorothy took a moment to remember, rubbing the card against her cheek gently. “Actually, he didn’t.”
An ice cube dropped into my chest. So it could have been David.
“He said he was asking her to leave one love and go to a new one and live more fully. Which is a lot more poetic. Romantic, even, don’t you think?”
The ice cube melted. “Absolutely.” So it was someone trying to get her to leave David. Veronica wanted David, but who wanted Lisbet? “Can you describe him to me?”
Dorothy scrunched her nose shyly. “He’s tall and hot and has kind of wavy dark hair and nice eyes.”
At least we’d gotten past “tall, dark, and handsome,” but
not very far. That described half the men who’d been at Aunt Cynthia’s. “Anything else?”
not very far. That described half the men who’d been at Aunt Cynthia’s. “Anything else?”
Dorothy thought another moment, then shook her head. I held out my hand and she reluctantly returned the card to me.
“Thank you very much for your help. I’m sure you can understand that the family would prefer that this sort of thing stay quiet. The circumstances of Lisbet’s passing are tragic enough without her fiance having to deal with a revelation like this.”
Dorothy grew wide-eyed, whether at the implication of a scandal in the making or of her complicity in it, I wasn’t sure. “I won’t tell a soul,” she assured me.
“Thank you,” I told her again and tried to find the space to turn around and find my way back through the greenery to the front door.
“After all, it’s like he said. Words just cause trouble.”
I stopped abruptly but made a point of turning around slowly so I didn’t startle Dorothy. “He said that?”
Dorothy nodded. “He said he liked flowers and film because they spoke without words.”
“Any form of communication that relies on words is inferior.”
“Yes!” Dorothy cried. “So you do know who he is!”
Oh yeah. “Yes, I think so.”
“Did you know?”
“No. I didn’t suspect him until just now.”
Dorothy unfolded her arms to their full length and gestured to her shop. “People reveal things here they would never reveal anywhere else. How sad for him to have lost her before he ever really had her.”
Unless it was his fault she was lost.
Dear Molly, Okay, if
every man has his price, then I suppose it’s not surprising that every woman does, too. But why do so many women have to be so blatant about their price tag? And don’t the women who are willing to sell for less destroy the market for the rest of us? What happened to holding out until you get your asking price? How are those of us who are committed to delivering a quality product supposed to compete with those who are willing to flood the market with cheap product that’s not going to last? Signed, Embittered Econ Major
every man has his price, then I suppose it’s not surprising that every woman does, too. But why do so many women have to be so blatant about their price tag? And don’t the women who are willing to sell for less destroy the market for the rest of us? What happened to holding out until you get your asking price? How are those of us who are committed to delivering a quality product supposed to compete with those who are willing to flood the market with cheap product that’s not going to last? Signed, Embittered Econ Major
“Where’s my present?”
Lara had the apartment door open far enough for me to enter, but she hadn’t invited me in yet. She looked at me expectantly, taking a hit off a new joint. Thankfully, she was clothed this time—although it was a relative state, given the shortness of her BCBG floral poplin skirt and the paintedon fit of her Generra ruffled tank. Still, even the suggestion of clothes made it easier to look her in the eye, although she was wearing Giuseppe Zanotti pink satin sandals, complete with pink crystal flowers and four-inch heels, so I had to look up to do it.
As I’d hurried out of the flower shop, I’d realized my next move had to be talking to Jake. The idea of Veronica
being pushed into the understudy slot yet again and Jake assuming the role of killer was becoming more compelling by the moment. Jake had given Lisbet some sort of ultimatum. Had she ignored it and that made him mad enough to kill her? Dorothy had said leave one love and go to a new one. Was Jake’s lust for Lisbet, or at least for taking away Lisbet, so strong that he’d given her an ultimatum and when she didn’t make the choice he wanted—him over David—he’d killed her? Could Veronica really be blameless in all this? Well, blameless in the murder, because her seducing David couldn’t have helped matters. Was it Jake’s voice on my answering machine and not Veronica’s? The voice had been so distorted it had been almost impossible to discern its gender, but I’d had a hunch it was female. Though with all the little electronic filmmaking gadgets he had, Jake could probably have altered his voice to sound like a twelve-year-old girl if he’d wanted to.
being pushed into the understudy slot yet again and Jake assuming the role of killer was becoming more compelling by the moment. Jake had given Lisbet some sort of ultimatum. Had she ignored it and that made him mad enough to kill her? Dorothy had said leave one love and go to a new one. Was Jake’s lust for Lisbet, or at least for taking away Lisbet, so strong that he’d given her an ultimatum and when she didn’t make the choice he wanted—him over David—he’d killed her? Could Veronica really be blameless in all this? Well, blameless in the murder, because her seducing David couldn’t have helped matters. Was it Jake’s voice on my answering machine and not Veronica’s? The voice had been so distorted it had been almost impossible to discern its gender, but I’d had a hunch it was female. Though with all the little electronic filmmaking gadgets he had, Jake could probably have altered his voice to sound like a twelve-year-old girl if he’d wanted to.
Did it make sense that Jake would post footage from the party if he was the one who’d killed Lisbet? The best defense is supposedly a strong offense. And given what Veronica had said about Jake liking to film everything, it made sense Jake would see the footage as a trophy, like those ghastly serial killers who keep body parts. I wondered if Jake had filmed Lisbet’s death, but the idea was too sickening and I pushed it out of my mind. Besides, how could he have swung the champagne bottle and held the camera at the same time?
If Jake was the one who’d threatened me, how could I approach him and not bare my neck to the executioner? But I had to talk to him. Maybe there was a way to play this with innocence, an approach Jake was probably completely unfamiliar with. Besides, there was a chance that if I went to
see him, he’d think I’d taken him off my list of suspects. Because who would be bold/foolish enough to go grill someone who had threatened to kill her unless she stopped asking questions? That would be me.
see him, he’d think I’d taken him off my list of suspects. Because who would be bold/foolish enough to go grill someone who had threatened to kill her unless she stopped asking questions? That would be me.
So I’d called him, planning to give him some song-anddance about the article. The maddening article. Even if I did come out of this with a byline, I was going to wind up with enemies, too. One story wasn’t going to please all masters. Unless I wrote about everyone’s investment in the piece and how a subject’s expectations conflict with the writer’s goal. Hey. That had potential. But I still needed to talk to Jake.
Lara answered the phone, her voice distant and chirpy. I’d caught her smoking and better yet, she didn’t seem to recognize my name when I offered it. So maybe Jake hadn’t let her in on his campaign against me, which was greatly to my advantage. When I asked to speak to him, she coolly informed me that Jake wasn’t home. And when I asked when she expected him, she said, “I never expect Jake. I experience Jake on his own terms.”
Some people stay in film school so long they forget how to interact with the real world. “When do you suppose Jake’s terms might bring him home next?” I attempted. I stopped where I was on the sidewalk, trying to beam all my energy through the cell phone and into Lara’s fuzzy brain to get her to focus.
“Why do you want to see Jake?” she asked petulantly.
“To accuse him of murder” was what I thought, but what I said was, “To talk to him about his filmmaking some more. I’m the magazine writer,” I added, in case the vague promise of publicity might work on her as well as it had on Jake.
“He could not make these films without me,” she replied, a touch of haughtiness replacing the petulance.
Right. She’d shot the footage of David and Lisbet and Veronica in the hallway. She’d been messing with the camera when Veronica and Jake were flirting at dinner. What else had Lara shot and/or seen that I didn’t know about yet?
“Then you should definitely be in the article.” The ever-expanding article. The Article that Ate New York City. Or at least my career. “Can I come talk to you, even if Jake isn’t home?”
“I don’t know,” Lara responded with the automatic coyness of a woman who’s accustomed to trading on her looks and charm.
A store across the street caught my eye. “I’ll bring you a present.”
So now, like some perverse dealer, I was standing in the stuffy hallway with a Blockbuster bag in my hand, trying to bribe my way into the apartment. And for the promise of getting her name in a magazine and a new DVD, she was going to let me in.
Lara squealed with excitement when she took the
Dora the Explorer
DVD out of the bag, then gave me an enthusiastic hug that semidragged me across the threshold. “You are so kind!”
Dora the Explorer
DVD out of the bag, then gave me an enthusiastic hug that semidragged me across the threshold. “You are so kind!”
“I hope you don’t have this one,” I said, trying hard not to feel ridiculous.
“No, I didn’t even know about ‘The Pirate Adventure,’” Lara assured me. She grabbed my hand and led me into the living room. Pushing me down onto the couch, she ran over to the DVD player. She wasn’t really expecting me to watch it with her, was she?
I tried to strike a nonchalant pose on the couch, but the couch’s angle and my mood were all wrong. “Lara, I’m sure it’s a great piece of cinema, but I need to talk to you. About the films you and Jake make, remember?”
Lara paused, weighing the pleasure of talking to me about herself with that of watching her new DVD. For a moment, I thought I was going to lose, but then she put down the DVD. “What would you like to know?”
“Do you do all of Jake’s camera work?”
“Not all,” she said. “Most. The good stuff.”
“You must’ve shot more than was on the Web site.”
Lara’s face darkened suddenly. “You’re talking of David’s party.”
“Yes.”
“Why? What do you know?” Lara’s long legs carried her to the couch in the blink of an eye and she leaned over me, preventing me from getting up. How had I upset her?
“What should I know?”
Lara bent down to get in my face. Her pupils looked pretty normal, so maybe she wasn’t all that buzzed, but that didn’t make her any less unpredictable. “You’re trying to trick me.”
I wanted to laugh this off, but her intensity was disturbing. Was Lara the one who was trying to trick me? Did she know more than she was letting on? Had she done more than I could imagine? Was she also involved in Lisbet’s death? Her leaning over me was suddenly making me very claustrophobic. I pushed against her legs, trying to get her to move so I could get up. She recoiled from my touch, jumping back. It was startling, but at least I could stand.
“It’s you,” she gasped in horror. “You did it.”
“Did what?” I asked indignantly. It was one thing for me to show up at her apartment thinking her boyfriend was a killer, but it was another thing entirely for her to suspect me. Of anything. I’d given my theory a lot of thought and she was just accusing me in the heat of the moment.
“You made Jake go away.”
“I did not. I haven’t talked to Jake since I was here yesterday. If I’d made him go away, why would I come here looking for him? Where did he go?”
“You have to leave. I can’t talk to you anymore.” Lara shoved me in the direction of the front door with surprising strength.
“Why did he go, Lara? Did he say where he was going?”
“I thought you were my friend.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. I need to talk to Jake, Lara. It’s important. Really, really important. A matter of life and death.”
“Out! Get out now!”
The Zanottis gave her impressive leverage and with another sharp shove, I was out in the hallway, minus my dignity and the information I’d come looking for. And the cash for the DVD. But I’d gained a huge new question. What did Lara imagine I’d done that made Jake go wherever he’d gone? It made sense Jake would want to hide if he’d killed Lisbet, but why had he waited until now to go? Had I tipped my hand and spooked him? What sort of story had Jake fed Lara to make her so protective? Or had he just blown her off and she was eager to lay some blame?
More important, how was I going to find Jake now? Lara was stonewalling me and the only other person I knew who knew Jake was David Vincent. I was willing to bet Lara’s ability to toss me out on my ear didn’t hold a candle to Tricia’s ability to keep me away from David while she was still angry. But Jake and David were the two people I needed to talk to the most. I had to get David’s story on what had happened with Veronica and his insight on where to look for Jake. But I also had to be careful or Tricia was going to blast me yet again for impure motives and other assorted character flaws.
So I called Cassady I felt positively old-fashioned holding my cell phone to my ear, but I’ve never found a comfortable enough earpiece that didn’t make me feel like I was practicing to be on tour with Janet Jackson. Earpieces have become so prevalent in New York that it’s hard to tell the bankers from the crazy people as both storm down the avenues, railing at unseen tormentors. “I know you have other things to do today,” I began as I walked back to Sixth to get a cab.
“Nothing more important than this.”
“You’re such a good friend.”
“Cherish me. What’s up?”
“I need to talk to David.”
“What’re you going to talk to him about?”
“Are you asking as a lawyer or a friend?”
“As an interested party. Specifically, a party interested in minimizing the damage on all sides.”
“I want to hear his side of the story about sleeping with Veronica.”
“That would be interesting.”
“So you haven’t talked to him about it either?”
“I haven’t seen him. I’ve only talked to Tricia. Apparently, her parents are confining David ‘on doctor’s orders,’ which is Park Avenue-ese for locking your child in his room, no matter his age.”
“I need you to get me in there.”
“Into David’s room?”
“I’ll settle for just inside the front door, as long as David’s within hollering distance.”
“So what you’re suggesting is that I come up with some sort of plan that gets you into the Vincents’ apartment under false pretenses and gives you the opportunity to grill their son about illicit sex he may or may not have had prior to the commission of a murder of which he may or may not be guilty.”
“Pretty much.”
“The disgusting thing is, I can do that.”
“I know. That’s why I called.”
“But it can’t be until this evening. Before dinner. Anything sooner’s going to look transparent and needy.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“All I’m saying is, that never wins over anyone.”
True. Still, this was a lip-chewer. I didn’t want to wait that long. On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine any other way I was going to be able to get the information. I stopped chewing and admitted, “You’re right.”
“Of course. Tricia’s spending the afternoon with her family, poor thing. I’ll tell her we’ll meet her there. At six-thirty. You show up, on your best behavior, and ask your questions quickly and quietly. Then we’ll go out and mend fences between you and Tricia.”
“Sounds planlike. Thanks.”
“You’re being careful, right?”
“Absolutely.”
I hung up and hailed a cab. As I was getting in, my phone rang again. I almost answered without looking at the number, assuming Cassady had thought of something else, but I glanced down at the last minute. It was the office, so I let it go to voice mail. Let Eileen grouse into a digital chip for a while.
I did keep my phone out and call Kyle. I wasn’t sure if he hadn’t gotten back to me because his new case was overwhelming or because he hadn’t found out anything helpful about the threat on my answering machine. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was done with helping me. Or done with me. There are so many options to consider when you’re a wary, weary, worried single woman in Manhattan.
The city’s full of men who want to finish you off, one way or the other.
The city’s full of men who want to finish you off, one way or the other.
He answered quickly, which was a good sign, and sounded concerned, which I also found hopeful. “Hey. You okay?”
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